Sports Night
by Gangsta Videl
Summary: Because win or lose---the game is far too much fun to play than to ever pass up. Perhaps only the dank of a bar can kill the hostility that is Brad x Ken.


Sports Night  
  
A/N: Brad x Ken! Brad x Ken! *jumps up and down and snorts* For some reason, I love this pairing. The only way you'd ever get it would be to watch the series in backwards Italian while standing on your head... and even then! XD So yeah. This fic is just my way of getting this out of my system. Read it! Review it! Love it! XD  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them... damn. vv But I do own the bar! XD  
  
***************  
  
It had been a rough week at the flower shop, which led to Ken asking for the night off and heading out to a sports bar not too far away. Hell, it might've been a great place to relax---if he hadn't been there.  
  
Not once during the motorcycle ride to the bar had Ken even dreamed that he'd see him.  
  
Him being the oldest, clairvoyant member of Schwarz, that is.  
  
As if noticing the younger's entrance, the American turned from his position at the bar and smirked at the wide-eyed former athlete. He hadn't known that the young member of Weiss would be joining him, though he knew that it would make for some decent entertainment in the end.  
  
"Schwarz," the brunette said finally, giving the darker haired man a cold scowl. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Last time I checked, it wasn't illegal for me to come to a bar, Weiss," came the curt reply. "Though for you, maybe it is. Here on one of your 'missions', are you?"  
  
Ken's eyes narrowed. "I could ask you the same thing."  
  
"Ha! As if. Do you think I'd actually waste time by watching the game before finishing a job? If this were one of my jobs, there'd be more blood in the room by now."  
  
Ken stayed silent. He hadn't noticed before, but... The American had actually dressed down for once. Ken had never seen him in anything other than a suit, and... To make things short, the teen hadn't quite expected to see him in dress pants and a half-unbuttoned shirt. It simply didn't fit the 'evil assassin' mold.  
  
"If all you're going to do is stand around, do it somewhere else," the older man cut in, causing Ken to jump slightly.  
  
"Wha-? No, I think I'll join you, Schwarz," he added with a thin-lipped, more-than-slightly sadistic smirk. "I can't just leave you alone in here, knowing what you do for a living."  
  
Ken sat himself next to the older assassin, smiling brightly. The older man shook his head in disinterest and looked back at the small, dusty televisioon set bolted to the back wall. Why it was even bolted there was a question to anyone---no one in their right of mind would try and steal anything that old and decrepit-looking.  
  
But it wasn't the set itself that had seemingly captured Crawford's attention---it was the match playing on the set. An American boxing match, Ken believed, as he couldn't quite understand what the announcer was saying, and the subtitles---because there were subtitles---were far too small to read.  
  
He must have been squinting, because he heard the assassin next to him sigh heavily. Ken glanced up in time to see him---Crawford, that is---set his bottle down and began to speak.  
  
"The man in red is named Ali, and the one in black is Carlson," he explained as Ken's eyes widened. "They fight when the bell rings---see? It shouldn't be too hard for you to follow, even if you are a complete amateur at the sport."  
  
The brunette scowled. "I'm not an amateur."  
  
"I find that hard to believe."  
  
"Just because I don't understand English... " Ken began, and the American shook his head boredly.  
  
"Once again, you've misunderstood me," Brad muttered, taking a long sip from his beer. He'd never looked like the sort of man who'd end up in a bar, much less one so dingy and... normal. "I was merely trying to suggest that your mental capacity was too inferior as to understand the rules of the match, and not the language and country that it was recorded in."  
  
Well, that certainly cleared things up! Ken frowned, taking a moment to try and think of a decent response---one that wouldn't make him out to be a complete idiot. Crawford, however, took his silence as a way of saying 'I'm too thick to know what you just said' and sighed.  
  
"Listen carefully, Weiss, I---"  
  
"The name's Ken."  
  
Crawford raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"  
  
The teen smiled at him. "My name's not 'Weiss', you know---it's Ken. Ken Hidaka."  
  
"The same Ken Hidaka who was kicked out of the J-League for drug usage?"  
  
The American laughed as the brunette bristled visibly. "Oh, still so touchy on that subject, are we?"  
  
"We are," Ken muttered coldly. It was amazing that his disposition could change so quickly, though it was, no doubt, a subject he'd taken to heart years ago.  
  
"And what about you, Mr. Schwarz?" he asked quickly, almost surprisingly Brad---almost. "Do you have a real name, or should I just call you 'Schwarz scum'?"  
  
That comment earned him a dark glare.  
  
Clearing his throat as if to say that he was pushing his luck, Brad removed his glasses with one hand and scowled at the younger man with no frames to block the way. It must have made an impact, because the boy actually looked a bit frightened.  
  
"No, actually, I don't quite think that you calling me 'scum' would be very accurate---or even mature, for that matter."  
  
"Thank you for clearing that up, Mister Rogers," Ken grumbled, and the precog raised one slender eyebrow.  
  
"As you can tell, Ken," he stated slowly, pushing the glasses back over the bridge of his nose, "I'm not a childhood idol who removes his sweater only to put on another one." The fact that he'd done so as a child was easily ignored in the effort to look more sophisticated. "My name is Crawford, and I'd appreciate it if you'd bother to use my name for once."  
  
"Crawford, huh?" Ken shrugged. "I like it."  
  
The American shook his head distastefully. "You would," he muttered, and Ken grinned.  
  
"Yeah, I guess I would... so, what's the deal with this game, anyway?" He jabbed his thumb at the television set, and the older man twitched slightly.  
  
"'Game'? Unlike you and your soccer, boxing is no mere 'game'," Crawford commented, tapping his fingers along the bar in an exasperated manner. "Boxing is much more intense---two people, alone, duking it out to see who can muster the strength to deliver the coup de gras. So much more amusing than soccer, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
He smirked, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose again, knowing that the boy would argue. He didn't even need to use his powers to see that, when it was so clearly etched onto his all-too naïve face.  
  
"You're nuts!" Ken shouts out defensively. As was predicted, no doubt. "Soccer is loads better! Any decent player could wipe the floor with one of your guys in an instant!"  
  
"Perhaps if it were a relay race," the bespectacled man replied slowly, "but not a competition of strength. You don't seem to realize how inferior the team athletes are to the ones who fight alone."  
  
It sounded simple. But Ken found the darker, much more complex meaning---  
  
You are weak, and I am strong. You will forever be under my thumb--- because I can control you.  
  
Ken frowned instantly. Wherever this crazed conversation was going, he wasn't too sure he wanted to stick it out anymore. Maybe leaving would be the better option...  
  
He was expecting, maybe, another insult to come from the American's lips. What he wasn't expecting, however, was to hear Crawford say; "You insult me, Hidaka."  
  
Well, there's a new one.  
  
"Me?! How do I insult you?!" Ken gaped, trying to figure things out. Hadn't he just been burned? Or maybe the American was hearing voices in his head... That was far more likely. Considering that he was perfectly sane.  
  
Brad did not answer, however; instead, he waved to the bartender who soon dragged out two more bottles of liquor. The apron'd man placed one in front of each of the two assassins before walking away to check on his other, much more interesting customers.  
  
As if they could ever beat the conversing of two rivals.  
  
"You were planning on leaving before the match finished," Crawford stated calmly, twisting the cap off his bottle and casting Ken a dull look. "And don't looked so surprised," he added, making Ken blink. "You ought to know better than to try that on me, Hidaka."  
  
"I wasn't going to leave," Ken lied, mentally kicking himself. How had the American known? He wasn't the telepath!  
  
He raised one eyebrow and tapped his temple with his left index finger. "If you'd bother to do your homework, you'd know," he stated simply, and Ken's eyes widened once more.  
  
"So... instead of letting me leave... " he said slowly, trying to piece everything together in a logical and sensible manner. "You bribe me to stay with booze?"  
  
"Something along those lines," Crawford admitted. "Though I must say, the conversation was at least half-way thought provoking. Unlike those I find with Schwarz."  
  
Ken raised an eyebrow. He knew this story quite well...  
  
"Are you meaning to say," he said slowly as he tugged at the bottlecap. Failing to remove it the first time, he swung around on the swivelling barstool and clamped the cold bottle in between his legs, trying to pry the cap off that way. "That your team isn't as fun to talk to as I am?"  
  
To which Brad replied with: "Something along those lines, yes."  
  
Ken grinned, victorious in both opening the drink and getting a one-up on the Schwarz leader. He raised the bottle in the air, and the other man lifted his and the two bottles clinked together with the chirping of glass- on-glass contact.  
  
"Here's to rousing conversations!" Ken joked, bringing the beer to his lips. He wasn't one for drinking---anyone he knew would be more than happy to attest to that, especially Youji---but he was in a bar, afterall. And it was a sports bar, as well---a double bonus. And gettign a compliment from one of the Schwarz, well.... That really had made Ken's week right there.  
  
Ken was actually relieved when Crawford drank to his false toast. It showed that maybe, perhaps, he really was human deep down, despite that 'I am God' nature about him. Or maybe he was reading too deeply into the situation---Ken found himself doing that sometimes.  
  
Maybe he was doing it now. Who really knows?  
  
"Who's going to win?" Ken asked, nodding towards the television. Brad raised a questioning eyebrow, as if to ask Ken if that was his only question...  
  
Peculiar? Not in his line of business!  
  
"Why ask when you can wager?" Crawford asked a moment later, casting Ken a very small---an undoubtedly very rare---smile. "I'll even be a gentlemen and let you have your pick first."  
  
Ken weighed the odds and nodded his acceptance. If he chose first, he'd still have a chance to win. But what of the prize?  
  
"Winner chooses the prize, as long as there's no blood involved. Agreed?"  
  
A sadistic gleam took over Crawford's face for a moment before he nodded and his usual, businessman appearance took over once more.  
  
"Agreed," he said quickly, and the two men shook on it.  
  
Looking back... Ken was proud of the way things turned out. Not only that, he was thrilled.  
  
He'd picked Ali. And---even though Crawford had that 'I still know more than you do' look on his face, he was damn proud of that choice.  
  
Especially when Ali's one-two combination sent Carlson to the mat.  
  
Ken grinned at the American brightly, consuming the last few droplets of his alcohol. "Looks like I win," he stated happily, and the American nodded.  
  
"To the victor goes the spoils," he replied calmly, and cast the teen an amused look. "So, what is it you desire? A chance to kill us all again?"  
  
"Nah," Ken replied, dismissing the idea with a flick of his wrist. "I was sort of thinking something different... Something really off the wall and unusual."  
  
"... I'm not buying the whole bar a round to celebrate your victory; no one in their right mind carries that sort of cash on their person." Brad sent him a strange look, as though trying to read his face.  
  
Ha! Fat chance. There was no way that Ken's wish could have written itself on his face without him doing so! And he wasn't that thick!  
  
"Enlighten me, then," Brad said calmly, turning in his seat so that the two were seated face-to-face instead of only side-by-side. He was greeted by Ken's smiling face as he asked the one thing Brad hadn't quite been expecting:  
  
"Meet me here again sometime soon, just like this?"  
  
It struck the American dumb for a moment, but he recovered and nodded, the faintest traces of amusement apparent on his features.  
  
Meeting him here, again? All alone and---dare he say it---normal?  
  
"Now that," he said with a brisk nod of his head, "is something I can agree to."  
  
Ken smiled. Brad smiled. And somehow? They both knew that next time--- they'd bet on all the matches. Because win or lose---the game was too much fun to play to ever pass up.  
  
***************  
  
A/N: HA HA! *poses triumphantly* Well, that's been sitting on my comp, half- finished since March.... ^^;; Ah well. The middle got sort of weird, and I half-expected the bar to magickally clear out so the two could do some really naughty things in the dark.... ^^;; But it all came together nicely in the end, don't you think?  
  
---Gangsta Videl 


End file.
